


The Miserable Life of Artimus E Kirkland

by DD1436812



Category: 2P Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: 2P, Backstory, Childhood, Fanfiction, Gen, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DD1436812/pseuds/DD1436812
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A backstory to 2p England, aka Artie Kirkland. Find out how he became the sadistic baker hetalians have grown to love. (This is a personal headcanon idea, and does not match with actual historical events. This version of 2ps are not addressed as countries, and do not mimic the canon acceptions of other 2ps. {i.e. Al's birthday or Artie's location of living})</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Miserable Life of Artimus E Kirkland

The Miserable Life of Artimus E. Kirkland  
{2014}

Let me tell you the story about my lonely life.

I lived alone, back as a lad, with only my mother to keep me company. She was beautiful; her silk brown hair and chocolate eyes made of the richest cocoa accented her milk skin with perfection. She would’ve stolen the hearts of many men if it weren’t for my father.  
Now, I never knew my father; he had left shortly before I had been born as my mother, Elizabeth, had told me. I assume I look like him, for I share no characteristics with Elizabeth. My hair laid scraggy and short and shone with a platinum hue. My eyes, bright like sapphires, reflected from my pale face, which was damaged with dusty freckles. I can remember numerous occasions where I would lock myself in the bathroom and vigorously scrub my face with a rag, and I would do so until my mother would break in and take the cloth away, leaving my skin red and raw like a strawberry.  
Living without my father wasn’t a heavy burden on Elizabeth, though. She was strong, independent, and I was an easy child to raise.  
“I could never take up another man, Artie. If I did, I’d have to take time away from you, and I could never do that,” she would say over and over again each time I’d mention the edition of a new man into the house.  
Because of this, Elizabeth single-handedly taught me everything I know, from basic and intermediate literature to fine arts such as sketching and classical music. I even learnt some culinary techniques, and at the age of six I found my calling: baking.  
During the Winter and Spring season, Elizabeth and I would pull out and dust off large silver bowls, whisks, measuring cups, and decorating tips used for icing from the cupboards and lay them out on the counter. My personal favorite treat to make to this day is cupcakes, and I was always the one to add and mix the ingredients. It always fascinated me how the multiple ingredients, each with their own composition and taste, could mold together into the creamy sweet batter. There were times, being the curious lad I was, I would ask my mother this, and she would only respond by saying, “It’s because of your passion it became that way.” I settled the manner in saying it was magic.  
This magic, in my mind, was not attained through a dusty, worn book with centuries of age, nor did it appear from some mystical chant with Latin words; it came from my mother’s secret ingredient.  
“Now, Artie, close your eyes and turn your head,” she would say. “You mustn't see my secret ingredient.”  
“But, Mother, why can’t I see it? Why can’t I see the magic?” I’d ask pleadingly, hoping that this time I would be allowed to feast my eyes upon one of the few things that has been kept from me for my entire life.  
Mother would only laugh and lightly nod, and I would cut off my pleas and turn away.  
“Everyone must have a secret ingredient,” she would say.  
I always noticed how her voice would soften every time she spoke that phrase, and, if I were fast enough to turn, I would see her eyes darken in colour, as if remembering and tenderly yearning for something from the past. I had always thought she was thinking of her husband; my father. To this day, my heart breaks every time I think of that distant, yearning expression, and I figure I will never know the cause of it. I wish I had asked her before she died.  
Although I spent most of my days in the comforts of my home with my mother, I had other interactions with the outside world. When I was young, I had a close friend named Al. Of course, Al was just his nickname, but all of the children called him it, so it’d be easier if I did as well. Despite us becoming best friends, Al was a complete opposite to me, like the negative of a developing photograph. He was much stronger and a few good inches above me, with tanned skin from hours in the outdoor sun (this probably explains why I was so pale from staying indoors for the most of my young and adolescent life). He had a head full of dark auburn hair, and a section of it always stuck up in a natural drooping cowlick. Luckily for him, his defiant lock was the only diminish to his profile; even the gap in his mouth, which was a result of a tooth being knocked out from a rough game of baseball, acted as a sort of gaudy accessory to his smile. I remember being with him the night my entire life changed for the worse.  
“Come on, lad; let’s go! Mother will be baking soon,” I called to Al one evening while running to my home.  
It was around Easter, as I recall, and the sunset was particularly warm that night. I sped along the gravel road and occasionally jumped over potholes in the ground or around larger rocks scattered about. My speed was exceptionally quick; I was excited to see my mother and show Al the newt I had caught and concealed in a jar earlier that day, which was calmly residing on my windowsill in my bedroom at that moment.  
“Jeez, Art, can’t ya slow down a bit? Ya know I can’t keep up with all this stuff on my back!” Al grunted and shifted his backpack’s weight to his other shoulder before attempting to quicken his pace.  
My friend’s pleas went unheard, but I did turn around and continue running backwards in order to taunt him.  
“My my: it appears to me the American can’t keep up with me,” I said boldly.  
“Just ‘cause you’re British doesn’t mean you’re better,” Al sneered,” I betcha I can hurl you into the ground in two seconds!”  
“The only reason you’re so slow is because you feed yourself as much as you do your ego,” I stated.  
We raced to the house and bounded up the steps to the front patio before catching our breath under the awning. As our composure regained, I happened to notice my friend continue to show a look of hidden despair of some sort; his eyes, usually a beautiful ruby, had their color darkened and blurred somewhat, as if I were viewing them submerged under water.  
“What’s wrong?” I asked, knowing fully well something was on the American’s mind.  
“I, uh...I have to tell you something. Later,” he replied solemnly as he looked up and noticed my curious and faintly worried expression.  
I nodded and, after retrieving my key from my front pocket and unlocking the door, we entered my house and continued upstairs to my room. I didn’t smell anything sweet when we initially entered the house, nor did I notice any warm air that would’ve appeared from an activated oven, indicating that my mother was either not home yet or she was in the basement retrieving extra flour or sugar to begin baking.  
Once we entered my room, I watched Al walk over to my bed and sit down, shrugging the hefty backpack off his shoulders and letting its weight cause the object to slowly sink into my mattress. He looked over at the window, and I heard him make a small comment towards my amphibian captor. After a pause, he spoke to me.  
“I’m seven now,” he spoke dryly.  
I could only nod as a sudden uneasiness settled like a rock in the bottom of my stomach. Birthdays were a terrible occasion for Al; each only settled as a mark for another year his brother had gone missing.  
“What was his name again?” I asked quietly and remained near the closed door as a sort of comfort for me.  
“Matthew,” Al replied and kept his eyes locked on the newt.  
I nodded again. I knew it would’ve made sense to walk over and comfort him, but at the time I couldn’t. Call it poor intuition if you must, but I never have felt safe while around Al when he’s distressed even to this day. He never yelled or threw things; he never threatened me while angry, either. For some unknown reason, though, I could never bring myself to reach out and help him. Maybe I should’ve. Maybe he wouldn’t have turned out the way he has if he knew he had a friend who truly sympathized with him.  
We were silent for awhile, each assumingly waiting for the other person to move or speak. It wasn’t until the newt, who had woken from its evening nap to feed, began walking up against the jar’s walls that Al spoke up.  
“I can’t stay tonight. Ma’s gonna wanna bake a cake for me tomorrow morning and I gotta be there to eat it,” he said apologetically and stood.  
I silently nodded and stepped aside, expecting him to exit from my room. I watched as he stood and cracked his knuckles, a trademark action of his. His crimson eyes looked up at me, and from the sunset filtering into the window I could see his hair and skin glint a faint golden hue.  
“Hey, Art… ya don’t hate me, do ya?” he asked.  
My blood ran cold. He stepped forward and smiled in a manner that would mock a shy person.  
“I mean… you have no reason to, right? I’ve never done anything to hurt ya in any way, right?”  
“Al… I don’t know what you mean.”  
“You would never hate me. After all, we’re best friends.”  
“Al, what are you doing? Why are you walking towards me? The door is to my right-”  
“Since we’re friends...yeah, we’re friends-”  
His lips hit mine. I stood there frozen in absolute fear. It...it hurt. A stinging sensation hit the edge of my eyes as they frantically searched for any logical reason for Al’s actions found in his facial expression. He appeared relaxed; his eyes were closed and his breathing came out in shallow puffs from his nostrils. I watched as his eyes slowly opened and searched my fearful orbs, as if he were desperately looking for a specific emotion in me that I had previously been looking for in him.  
How was I supposed to know what sexual desire was; I was only eight years old. Now that I am older, Al’s reactions were quite obvious.  
Before I could say anything more, he stepped away from me and walked out the door. I turned towards him, watching him descend the steps; I made a mental note that he had left his bag resting on my bed. I quickly retrieved his bag and slung it over my shoulder, causing myself to fall face-first onto the bed and feel myself become pinned between the backpack and my mattress. Al carried all of his baseball gear in his backpack, along with random sentimental values or recent collections. I just wished he hadn’t decided to start collecting rocks.  
By the time I had managed to heft the heavy object off my small form, he had already left. I knew I wouldn’t be able to drag the bag down the stairs and out my front door in time to catch up to him. Besides, my mother would’ve questioned my behavior of trying to leave at this time; the sun had already set by then. I sat there, idly staring at my newt before sighing and standing, feeling a small pain in between my shoulder blades. As I grimaced, a thought filtered into my mind; I hadn’t seen my mother ever since I had returned home, nor had I heard any noise signaling her existence. I rushed out of my room, calling out to my mother from the top of the stairs.  
“Mother, are you here?”  
Silence  
“Mother, are you in?”  
I descended the steps and repeated the pattern.  
“Mother, are you here? Mother, are you in?”  
I entered the kitchen and scanned the small room. No supplies were out, save for a small sack of flour sitting on the counter. I checked the oven and noticed it wasn’t on.  
“Mother, are you here? Mother, are you in?”  
Why wasn’t she answering me? She should’ve been home by now. I would’ve liked to imagine she was off with a man, hoping that she would’ve finally came to her senses and decided to move on, but I knew her better than that.  
“Mother?”  
I turned towards the basement door. It was left ajar, a sign that someone had used it; I was taught at a young age that it was disrespectful to leave doors open if they were unattended. Slowly crossing the room and wrapping my fingers around the delicate gold-leafed knob, I hesitantly turned the handle and opened the door. It swung outwards soundlessly and revealed the unpolished wooden staircase that descended into the black void that was my basement. At a distinct moment, I realized I was afraid to go down there. In fact, I realized the only times I would go down there was if my mother needed me to fetch her something for our baking. I heard my ears crackle ever so slightly as I attempted to swallow my fears. It was just a basement, after all; nothing to be afraid off. I’ve done it once, I can do it again. I could hear myself chanting encouragements.  
“Mother...are you here? Mother...are you in?” I called out into the void.  
Silence  
I nodded to myself and slowly walked down the steps, making a careful note to count each step as I descended. 8 steps down, one right turn, 2 steps down. Light switch on the left, just above my ear. I swallowed hard and nodded again and flicked up the switch.  
Light flooded the small room, the source coming from a bright bulb slightly off-center in the ceiling. Shelves lined the walls, and all were packed with sacks of flour, sugar, brown sugar, cinnamon; crates of mainly vanilla but various other extract bottles; paper liners, icing bags, pastry boxes used for loading treats during the holidays for family and friends. These once spotless items that brought joy into my life were now covered in dark flecks, as if a water balloon filled with paint had exploded in the room. I would’ve blamed Al for the mess if I hadn’t looked to the floor for the source of the mess.  
My mother, Elizabeth, a once beautiful woman, laid on the smooth concrete ground in a pool of her own blood. Her dark silky hair was matted and torn, and some areas of her scalp were bare from her hair being aggressively ripped out. Her pale flawless skin was covered in lacerations and deep cuts that leaked with blood and unmentionable gore. Her delicate fingers, which were once used to play intricate pieces on her beloved piano in her bedroom, were broken and bony, like that of a tortured witch’s. Her chest showed no movement. Her face showed no peace.  
I felt my vocal cords tighten to the point I thought they would snap. What was meant to be a desperate call of help turned into a cracking shriek of despair. I was only eight years old. I ran to my mother’s side and screamed; I screamed at her to get up, I screamed at Al to come back, I screamed towards the Heavens to explain why they took her away.

I was...utterly alone. 

I never recovered.

Days later, I crept back into the basement. Al hadn’t returned to retrieve his backpack; I assumed he either forgot about it or he didn’t want his family to see what was inside it for whatever reason. I had looked into the mirror before I decided to enter the basement again. I saw my reflection as a watercolor portrait that had faded with years of abuse and neglect. My eyes no longer shone; the sapphires were dead, along with her. I entered the basement and flipped on the light and was greeted by her lying on the floor in her horrific position as she had been before. A slight smell filled the room, one that would make a sane man sick, but I took no note to it. I walked over and knelt next to her form.  
“I cleaned my room like usual, and I swept the halls.”  
Silence  
“I only ate when I was hungry, but I saved the last piece of chocolate in the pantry for you, because I remember you told me you wanted to have it.”  
Silence  
“ …can you tell me your secret now? Please?”  
Tears brimmed my eyes and I swallowed back my woes. I wasn’t willing to cry in front of my mother if she wouldn’t be able to comfort me.  
“I just…I just want to see the magic…”  
My mother’s phrase echoed into my ears. Everyone must have a secret ingredient.  
It was like something clicked in my mind. A secret ingredient, something that could define the baker and make him unique among the millions of others. A secret ingredient, something that added depth and perception to something the average vendor would only describe as “sweet”. A token from the past, and a gift to the future-- of course! I must make my own! But with what, and when?  
My chest filled with air and excitement. I could use anything I wanted. I could create something entirely new. My inspiration would be obvious; my mother would somehow have to be incorporated into it. I felt my head spin with wonder. Dark hair and eyes… chocolate? Pale skin…milk? She’s nice and warm… brown sugar? Nutmeg? What can I use? Better yet…… what couldn’t I use?  
I looked down past her mangled body and at the dark crimson blood beneath her. It was out of curiosity, if I remember correctly, that possessed me to lean down and press one of my palms into the cold liquid, watching it cling to my fingers as if they were a hungry sponge. A sense of relief washed over me as I remained motionless in that moment. I felt safe. No one was going to hurt me like they hurt her. I was safe. I raised my hand and felt a sense of awe as I admired the color that stained my hand. I had to incorporate my mother somehow…  
… it was like… something had clicked inside my fragile mind. Nothing large, like a sudden explosion of inspiration; it was more like a small flutter of a butterfly’s wing to that drew attention, or the last piece of a thousand-piece puzzle neatly fitted into place. Of course. It was so simple. 

I could use her.

You want to know what truly drove me mad?

It worked.

Flash forward 11 years and you’d discover my once humble home has been transformed into a small bakery filled with pastel colors and soft hues. I became a successful man in my time; everyone around knew of “Kirkland’s Cupcakery: The Finest of Our Generation”. I added the last bit as a sort of flare to the new age of discovery. What had once been part of my mother became part of everyone, in a way; there were plenty of volunteers, those who entered my shop asking for a position in which I happily provided.  
The job was simple: lead the lovely man or woman downstairs into my basement and knock them over the head. Within a few hours, I’d have a new batch of pastries to sell to the customers in my shop as well as choice cuts for those in the black market. The police never got involved. Then again, it was a small town; I doubt anyone could do anything quick enough to stop me. Now, don’t look at me and think of my as an insane sociopath. I was a psychopath; there was a difference. A sociopath shows no remorse for his victims, whereas I was constantly rattled with anguish and aggravation towards myself. I was aware that they were innocent, I was aware of what I was doing. I was insane. 

It didn’t take me long to get sick of all of it.

I had closed shop early that fateful evening. I remember how much my hands shook and my forehead became slick with sweat. I kept muttering to myself, “I am done. I am done. No more. No more.”  
I replayed the instructions I had memorized from a book I had purchased long ago. Black Magic: A Guide to the Misfortunate. If only I hadn’t found that book. I was, and still is, a strong believer in magic. It is real; I promise you. This wouldn’t have happened if it were false.  
After closing the blinds and locking the doors, I set up the supplies necessary to perform my act. One large silver bowl. One whisk. Flour, eggs, salt, sugar, vanilla, paper cups, icing, food coloring, sprinkles. A chef’s knife. I shakily picked up the polished blade, taking no time to admire it’s sheen before digging it into my forearm. I winced and quickly held my arm over the bowl as I watched my blood drain from my body. The pain was incredible. I made sure to severe many major arteries, and as I saw my world start to darken, I cited a chant.

Time is ticking  
Blood is trickling  
Save my life  
Save my seconds  
Until I bear no more

I felt the black magic course through my wounds and temporarily heal them. Excitement and insanity was the only thing to enlighten me. I continued steadily, puncturing my skin repeatedly, making sure to avoid any organs; I didn’t want any extra messes to deal with. Each time I grew weak, I would recite the chant with more force, and I would feel my strength return and I would continue. I managed to bring out more bowls and plastic containers to hold my crimson despair. As I finished draining my body, I felt the magic work through my system, leaving me numb. I knew I didn’t have much longer to live.  
I set to work on creating my masterpiece. Mixing, adding, aligning, baking; everything was an enormous task. I felt my lips repeat the phrase, and I was able to continue on. As hours ticked by, I finished sprinkling the last cupcake. My work was done. I was free. I smiled as relief washed over me, and I fell, welcoming darkness as my new lover.

I woke up about thirty minutes later.

I remember struggling to my feet and looking down at myself. My clothes and skin were stained in dark liquid, but my body showed no injuries, save for a small scar on the palm of my left hand. I gasped, and I instantly noticed a hollow sound as air ran through my windpipes, as if they were simply blown in by a machine doing the breathing for me. I looked around and noticed the decorative display of beautiful cupcakes. “The Closing Curtain” said a small handwritten note next to it, explaining the decoration and arrangement on the display. My head swam with confusion.  
“Didn't I die?” I asked under my breath. “Is this what Hell is?”  
I received no response, save for the dry vibration of my vocal chords working on pure muscle memory. I should’ve been dead. I shouldn’t be alive. Why am I still standing?  
I pressed my hand to my chest, then my neck, then my wrist. I felt no pulse. I would be dead to the doctors and scientists and other worshipers of logic and reason. I exited the kitchen and crossed my reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall, causing me to stop and peer at it. I saw myself stare at me. What I saw knocked me off-guard.  
Despite the bloodstains on my clothes and skin, I looked alive. My platinum hair shone like silk. My skin was that of milk; pale and flawless with no scar or blemish to be seen. My eyes gleamed like polished pure sapphires. I had an almost angelic appearance. For the first time in my life, I saw my mother in my reflection. The straight nose, small ears, and calm expression that could turn stern with a simple knitting of the brows. I had never seen myself like this before. It was within that moment when I locked eyes with my reflection that this was the start of my new life.  
I discovered new characteristics about myself within the next few days. I didn't need to sleep or eat, though I could have a form of an appetite if I willed it enough. I couldn't feel anything physical, so pain and pleasure were now banned from my existence. I couldn't bleed, either; once my blood was drained from my body, that was it. I was able to produce tears and saliva though, thankfully. I didn’t need to breathe, either, and holding my breath provided no form of dizziness or disorientation. Everything else appeared to work as normal.  
I decided to close down my shop and destroy it. It was late in the night, and I kept myself shielded. A few molotovs and broken liquor bottles, along with some traces of gasoline, proved to have done the trick. I removed only a few possessions before destroying the house; my birth certificate, a picture of my mother, and a letter from a man named nicknamed “Lud” to my mother is the only surviving articles of my past. The next day, I appeared in front of my shop and knelt to my knees, sobbing loudly enough for others to take notice. I received a lot of sympathy; some members even started a charity to help me rebuild. I declined, saying I should take the damage as a sign for me to move on and live out my life before settling into a business. I started to travel abroad.  
I ran into Al on and off, but after discovering my mother’s death he rarely returned. He found out about the secrets and deeds that were done in my basement and shunned away from me. I expected it from him, so parting was mutual. He disappeared a few months before my suicide to go find his brother. I saw his picture on the news recently; he’s matured immensely. His muscles bulged and toned, his skin and hair darkened, and he gained lip piercings and an arrangement of tattoos featuring black stars and freedom flags, from what I could see on his arms in the picture. He held onto his baseball bat, the same one from his childhood, only now it was covered in bent nails and dark red stains. The words “Wanted for Murder” was posted above the photograph. I would love to meet him again and have us share our stories.  
And now we are back to the present. I turned 22, based off the date on my birth certificate. I only keep it for me to remember I used to live, actually; after the suicide, I haven’t physically aged a day. I heard on the news Al was arrested about a week ago, but the headlines flashed that he had escaped this morning. I tracked him down and invited him over for some tea. I still bake, though my treats aren’t as glorious as they used to be; I would occasionally slip into a blood bank and steal a bag to use a small amount for the sake of coloring and nostalgia. It isn’t quite the same… but it works. I got a new frame for my mother’s picture and hung it over the fireplace.  
Despite my British ancestry, I have lived in the United States my entire life, save for when I was initially born in London. I say this because I have run into numerous people when I enter town asking me about my accent. I hate it when they ask me that. Anytime someone tries to bring up my past, I grow incredibly angry and somewhat violent, and I just want to take my knife out of its handmade holster and dig it right into their-- 

Oh… pardon me. I hear a knock at the door. 

~FIN~

**Author's Note:**

> Ello, poppets~! I hope you enjoyed this short story of Artie Kirkland. I apologize if it bothered you for not matching historical events or other headcanons, but I wished to create a backstory to him that didn't mimic others. If you enjoyed my story, and wish to contact me for anything (story suggestions, roleplay ideas, etc) you may contact me at onetruekirkland.tumblr.com.


End file.
